This afternoon, I was working at the pharmacy. Father stayed home. He said he was not feeling well, and after all the whiskey he drank last night, I don’t doubt it. I was happy to work alone at the pharmacy. It gets me out of the house. There’s been no word from Carol. Father said that she is still at her sister’s in Philadelphia, but I’m beginning to doubt that. He is constantly in a foul mood. I almost miss his foolish optimism.

So, as I said, I have no problem working at the pharmacy on my own. It gives me some time to myself and to keep an eye out for the courier. My heart leaps at every shadow that passes in front of the store window, only to fall when it’s not someone carrying an order from Thomas.

The pharmacy is in trouble. We’ve only done a fraction of the sales that Father was so certain the summer crowd would bring. There’s the odd straggler who wanders in out of curiosity or the vacationer who has forgotten something in New York. When they see the prices of our exotic toothpowders from India, they leave and go to the grocers.

And that was how today started—with me behind the counter, reading a book, and waiting.

Around one o’clock, the bell rang, announcing a customer, or I hoped, the courier, or anyone besides the person who actually walked in the door: Patricia Fleming, the town gossip.

“Good afternoon,” she said, in her overly polite tone.

“Good afternoon,” I returned.

She made a half-hearted pretense of ‘shopping’, and eventually made her way to the counter.

“How’s business?” she asked, taking in the empty store.

I had been trying to ignore her with my book, but knowing it was hopeless, I closed the book and addressed her. “We’re thinking of having a sale. People seem to find our products slightly too expensive.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” she said, unfazed.

She eyed my necklace.

“That’s something pretty,” she said. “A present from someone?”

“That’s not your business,” was all I could think to say.

Instead of backing down, she seemed to enjoy my rebukes. “No. You’re right. It’s yours …” She pretended to admire a display of lip balm on the counter. “And how is your business with Mr. Carrington?”

I couldn’t hide my surprise, which is what she wanted to see. I wanted her to leave.

“Did you come in specifically to pry into my life?” I asked.

“No. My friends and I take a walk every afternoon through the square. I thought I’d stop in to see if there was any business between you and Mr. Carrington, and there clearly is.”

“Congratulations, and now you can leave.”

She shook her head as though she pitied me. She went to leave but turned back.

“Do you know about Mr. Carrington?”

“He prefers me to call him ‘Thomas’.”